Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  “What do you mean moved?” he said slowly. “Moved how?”

  “Do you know what ‘fixed lividity’ is? Do you know about that?”

  Peter nodded, then glanced at her. “Do you?”

  “I do now. Jimmy’s right leg was different—not the way it was supposed to be. Nick says he died with his leg like this.” She lifted her foot onto the seat and pulled it tight against her thigh. “But everyone agrees that when they found him, his leg was flat out again. That means that somebody moved him.” She longed to add, “And that means somebody killed him”—but she remembered Nick’s constant admonition to say only what you know.

  Peter groaned. “That could be explained a hundred ways.”

  “For instance.”

  “Maybe the leg just stayed up on its own.”

  “It can’t do that.” She shook her head. “Try it yourself.”

  “Then maybe something held it up.”

  “What? Did you find anything? Everybody else says there wasn’t anything around. If there was, somebody had to move it. Who would do that?”

  Peter grew more impatient with each of Kathryn’s questions.

  “Do you know about rigor mortis?” he said irritably. “Where the body stiffens up? Did the doc tell you about that too?”

  Kathryn frowned. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “It usually takes a few hours to set in—but there’s a thing called ‘instant rigor mortis’ too. It happens when the victim is exhausted just before death, and when the death is real sudden—like in a suicide,” he said pointedly. “The whole body goes into an instant spasm—it locks up on the spot. I’ve seen it happen on the battlefield. A guy takes a bullet to the head and you have to pry his fingers off his rifle.”

  “That can’t be it.”

  “Why not? Tell me.”

  “I don’t know why. It just can’t, that’s all!”

  Peter pulled the car into Kathryn’s driveway, shifted into park, and turned off the ignition. They sat side by side in the silent shadows for an eternity. Kathryn performed the crucial task of wiping dust from the creases of the dashboard while Peter squeezed and relaxed his grip on the steering wheel in rhythm with his pulse.

  Peter turned and reached into the backseat. “You’ll want these,” he said, handing Kathryn the crumpled cigar box. “Jimmy’s things.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Just what I thought I’d find,” he said. “Just what you see there.”

  She opened the lid and removed a small bundle of paper. There was a torn and ragged birth certificate, a Social Security card, and a few outdated and irrelevant financial records. There was a yellowed clipping from the Courier proudly announcing that no less than three of Rayford’s finest had enlisted together at Fort Bragg, and that the world was sure to be a safer place as a result. There were faded letters from Amy during the deployment in the Gulf. There were two letters from Kathryn as well—just two—and the sight of her own handwriting stabbed her through the heart. It seemed pathetic that a human life could be ultimately reduced to such a tiny collection of memorabilia.

  She looked at Peter. “What are you thinking?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “I was wondering why you always seem to prefer the dead to the living.”

  Kathryn turned away.

  “First it was Andy,” he said. “I know you loved him—I mean, I know how hard it must have been to lose your husband.”

  “No you don’t. You can’t know.”

  “Maybe not. But I tried to help in every way I could think of. I was there for you every day—in person, in the flesh. I’m the soldier who came home,” he said, “but you wanted the one who didn’t. I knew it would take time for you to get over Andy—but I hoped that … over time …”

  “We talked about this, Peter,” she said awkwardly. “It was hard to let go—not knowing what happened to Andy. It’s like he was never really gone. I never felt free.”

  “That was almost ten years ago, Kath. Aren’t you free yet?”

  She said nothing.

  “Now it’s Jimmy. Now you spend all your time trying to figure out what happened to him. I think I got sore about this investigation of yours because it started to look like Andy all over again! I was sorry about Andy—and now I’m sorry about Jim. But life goes on, Kath. They’re dead—we’re alive. It’s time to stop living in the past and start looking ahead.”

  Kathryn tried to look at him but couldn’t.

  “It’s true. I know it is. I couldn’t let go of Andy—and now I can’t let go of Jimmy either. I can’t let go because they’re all I ever had.”

  “You’ve still got me.”

  “I know, but … it’s like that story in the Bible, remember? If you lose one sheep, you leave the other ninety-nine and go look for the one you lost.”

  “You don’t leave the ninety-nine forever,” he muttered. “Sooner or later you come back. Sometimes I think the only way to get any attention from you is to die.”

  “Don’t say that! Not even joking.”

  They sat in silence again. Kathryn leaned back against the headrest and searched carefully for her next words.

  “I know you won’t believe this,” she said, “but I do love you.”

  “Then why—”

  “I don’t know why—and I know it’s not fair to you.” She looked at him hopelessly. “Why don’t you marry that nice Jenny McIntyre and start a family? She deserves you.”

  “And I deserve you. But that doesn’t seem to matter.”

  A car rolled by behind them. The sweep of the headlights lit Peter’s face for a few seconds, and Kathryn caught a glimpse of his gray-blue eyes. She had always thought that his eyes were the color of deep river ice or perhaps winter fog. To her amazement, she suddenly realized that Peter’s eyes were very much like Nick’s—both seemed somehow elusive and unapproachable; both seemed to hide behind a thick wall of glass. Somewhere behind that flat gray wall, a soul floated and darted but never really came to rest.

  Peter spoke quietly now. “You say you love me. For me, it’s more than that. Have you ever felt like you were made for someone? Like you were meant to be together? I don’t know how to explain it, but that’s how I feel—that’s how I’ve always felt about you. So far things have gotten in the way—but those have only been delays. It has to happen, Kath. I know that we’re supposed to be together—now, always, forever.”

  They were the most endearing words Kathryn had ever heard. Once again she dredged the depths of her heart for some token of longing or passion for Peter. She found none. She had done the exercise a thousand times, and each time that she hauled the net to the surface she found only the scattered debris of gratitude or pity. She hated herself for her coldness, for her inability to respond to such a loving, loyal, and patient man. He was right—he deserved her love. He had earned it. She ought to love him. And yet …

  Kathryn looked at Peter with tears in her eyes.

  “Was it my fault?” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Jimmy’s death. Was Amy right? Did I send him over the edge? Did he kill himself because of me?”

  “It wasn’t you,” he said. “It took more than that.”

  “How do you know?”

  Peter smiled and took her hand. “He was disappointed over you. But if disappointment was enough to kill a man, I would have been dead a long time ago.”

  Kathryn put her face in her hands and began to weep, and Peter began to softly stroke her hair.

  Lay it over there on the grass, upside down.” Nick turned from the hive and handed the lid to Kathryn, who took it with her thick, gloved hands.

  Kathryn watched as Nick picked up a tin smoker and sent a single blue puff from the smoldering pine straw into the hive opening, then two more puffs across the open top. He lifted off the entire top super, a drawerlike unit laden with more than forty pounds of amber honey. Row after row of thin wooden frames proj
ected down into it like air filters in a furnace. Each frame was spanned by a section of chicken wire, and the wire was almost obscured by thick golden comb in a quilt of hexagonal cells. On each frame hundreds of bustling bees raced about, darting into empty cells and out again.

  “The bees don’t look … angry,” she said in wonder.

  “Bees don’t get angry—or jealous or cruel or spiteful. Those are qualities of your species, Mrs. Guilford, qualities you project on other species to justify your own irrational fears. They do share one quality with you, however. They will fight to protect their home, just as you would.”

  Nick followed Kathryn to the selected site and gently placed the super on top of the inverted lid, then returned to the hive and prepared to remove the second super. Kathryn studied this strange ritual in silence.

  “You’ve barely said two words all morning,” Nick said. “Something on your mind?”

  “I’m mad at you,” Kathryn said.

  Nick peered deep inside the hive. “I think I’ve got varroa mites,” he said. “That’s bad.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “You expect me to ask? That’s like volunteering to be shot. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

  “You called Peter to drive me home last night. You set me up.”

  “I arranged an interview for you. As I said, it’s customary to call first.”

  “I thought you were concerned about me. I should have known better.”

  “I’m concerned about completing this investigation. I thought that was your concern too.”

  Kathryn said nothing.

  Nick peered at her over the top of his glasses. “So … did you have a nice drive?”

  The third super was about ten inches deep. Nick carefully hoisted it and lugged it to the growing stack of supers just a few yards away.

  “I told him,” Kathryn said. “I told Peter that the body was moved.”

  Nick said nothing for a few moments but continued about his work. “The point of an interview,” he muttered, “is to gain information, not to give it away.”

  “He deserved to know. We said we would cooperate. Fair is fair.”

  “By all means let’s be fair,” Nick said under his breath. “So tell me, how did the sheriff react?”

  “I told him about the leg and he said—”

  “No—how did he react? What did he do in the first five seconds after you told him the body had been moved?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all? No exclamation, no look of surprise, no comment of any kind?”

  “No. He just … sat there.”

  “Did he turn to look at you?”

  “He just stared straight ahead. I don’t see what difference it makes.”

  “I know you don’t. Now tell me what he said about the leg.”

  “He told me about something called ‘instant rigor mortis.’ He said the body might have locked up instantly, and that might have frozen the leg in place.”

  “Very clever.” Nick smiled. “It’s actually called ‘cadaveric response.’ It happens because adenosine triphosphate disappears from the muscles. ATP is the compound that allows muscles to contract—without it, the muscles stiffen until decomposition accelerates about a day later. Rigor first appears in the jaw and neck and works its way toward the feet. That means it might take several hours to affect the right leg under normal conditions. But if there’s been violent exertion just before death—as in the case of a struggle, for example—the ATP is already depleted and the muscles stiffen rapidly. In the case of sudden death, rigidity may occur instantaneously. That’s a ‘cadaveric response.’ ”

  “Peter said that can happen in a suicide.”

  “It can—but it didn’t happen to your friend.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we have to account for the bent position of one leg, not two. Remember, the spasm is instantaneous. Was your friend standing or lying down at the time of death?”

  “There’s no way to tell.”

  “Then let’s suppose he was standing. To stand, both legs have to be straight; to crouch, both legs must be bent—but you can’t have one straight and one bent. For a cadaveric response to leave your friend’s leg in the position we’re looking for, he would first have had to somehow exhaust himself, then stand on one leg and raise the other one like a whooping crane—then put the gun to his head and pull the trigger. Very strange behavior, even for a manic depressive like Jimmy.”

  “What if he was lying down?”

  “It’s a similar situation. Your friend runs all the way to the woods, thus exhausting himself; then he lies down, raises one knee in an uncomfortable position, takes out his gun and fires. Do you believe that? Besides, if he was lying down we might have found some blood spatter on the grass around the exit wound. Teddy found none. I’m afraid the sheriff’s theory doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. The best explanation for the leg continues to be that the body was moved.”

  The look of relief was evident on Kathryn’s face. Nick studied her closely.

  “What else did the sheriff have to say? What about my question?”

  Kathryn looked back at him awkwardly. “It’s a little complicated …”

  “Translation: I find it embarrassing to talk about. Look, Mrs. Guilford, can’t we get past this ‘it’s too personal’ thing? Repeat after me: ‘Peter loves me. I don’t love him. He won’t give up. He wishes Jimmy and everyone else would get out of the way so he can have me all to himself. He wants this investigation to be over—so he purposely spread the word about Jimmy’s drug addiction to put an end to the rumors and help seal the verdict of suicide.’ ”

  “He wants the investigation to be over,” she said, “because he thinks I’m obsessed with Jimmy’s death.”

  “And he foolishly assumes that when Jimmy’s death is behind you, your attention will turn to him.”

  Kathryn glared at him. “He answered your question. Now do you understand why he told Denny about the cocaine?”

  “I understand that he wants the investigation to be over,” Nick said. “And I understand the reason—the reason he gave you anyway. But there may be another reason he wants things wrapped up so quickly. That’s a possibility we still have to explore.” He leaned toward her. “That is, if you’re willing.”

  Kathryn shook her head in exasperation. She looked at the shrinking hive, which now had only two deep supers remaining.

  “What in the world are you doing?” she asked.

  “I thought we’d do something very special today—and something even more special next time. Come over here.”

  Kathryn didn’t like the sound of his invitation, but she also knew by now that it wasn’t really an invitation anyway. Nick slid one of the frames from the exposed super and studied it closely, then carefully plucked a single wriggling insect from among the swirling masses. It was slightly thicker and darker in color, with eyes much larger than the rest.

  “There are three kinds of honeybees in a hive,” he said. “The vast majority are infertile females—workers. Their job is to build and maintain the comb and to care for the brood of young bees. They provide, they nurture, and they defend—they’re the ones who can sting you. Then there’s the queen, the only sexually productive female in the hive. Her only job is to lay eggs—one every twenty seconds, about fifteen hundred a day. But for those eggs to produce new workers, you need one of these.” He held up the wriggling creature between his thumb and forefinger. “This is a drone—a male.”

  “Why doesn’t it sting you?” Kathryn shuddered.

  “Because it has no stinger. He’s helpless—he has to be fed and cared for by the females.”

  “Just like in my species.”

  “In many ways bees are very much like your species—and in other ways they’re different. The male’s single goal in life is to mate with the queen. He has to compete with other males for the privilege, and he often dies in the act of mating.”

  “How
are they different?”

  Nick smiled. “There are only a couple hundred of them in the hive. The ladies will keep him around until autumn and then drive him away. There’s nothing more useless than a tired old stud.” He turned to Kathryn. “Hold out your hand.”

  Kathryn hesitated, then slowly extended her gloved left hand.

  “Good,” he said. “Now—take off the glove.”

  Kathryn began to pull away, but Nick quickly caught her hand in a firm handshake. He loosened his grip and began to pull—slowly, gently, all the time smiling and looking into Kathryn’s eyes. The glove began to slip away. She stared wide-eyed at the growing patch of soft, pink flesh at the end of her sleeve.

  “I … I can’t …”

  “You can,” he said firmly. “This is just a little bit of yarn—a piece of carpet fuzz.”

  “With legs.”

  “With legs, yes, but no stinger. He can’t hurt you. He likes you—after all, he’s a male. He’s thinking to himself, ‘That’s the most remarkable female I’ve ever seen! I’d sure like to mate with that!’ Very much like the males in your species.”

  “Don’t make me laugh!” she said nervously. “What do I do?”

  “You do nothing. You just hold still.”

  Nick held her by the wrist and gently set the drone on the palm of her hand. It had six fragile, finely haired legs. The twin forelegs seemed to pat their way along as the tiny creature crept a few steps, fanned its wings, then moved on. She could see the individual mouthparts, the threadlike veining of the cellophane wings, and the bulbous compound eyes that protruded on either side. The striped abdomen waggled from side to side as it moved.

  “It … tickles.” Kathryn stared at the tiny life form in her hand and marveled at its complexity—but even more she marveled at the experience itself. She was actually holding an insect—and not just any insect, but the ancient demon from the pit of all her fears. For an instant she allowed her memory to slither back to that day in the Chevy long ago—then she looked again at the tiny bee in the palm of her hand. Her fingers trembled slightly, not from fear but from the rush of pure adrenaline. She felt exultant, she felt redeemed—for the first time since she could remember she felt free.